A farewell consultation with his attorneys proved encouraging, for to them his chances to win the extraordinary contest seemed of the best.  He was in high spirits as he left them, exhilarated by the sensation that the world lay before him.  In the elevator he encountered Colonel Prentiss Drew.  On both sides the meeting was not without its difficulties.  The Colonel had been dazed by the inexplicable situation between Monty and his daughter, whose involutions he found hard to understand.  Her summary of the effort she had made to effect a reconciliation, after hearing the story of the bank, was rather vague.  She had done her utmost, she said, to be nice to him and make him feel that she appreciated his generosity, but he took it in the most disagreeable fashion.  Colonel Drew knew that things were somehow wrong; but he was too strongly an American father to interfere in a matter of the affections.  It distressed him, for he had a liking for Monty, and Barbara’s “society judgments,” as he called them, had no weight with him.  When he found himself confronted with Brewster in the elevator, the old warmth revived and the old hope that the quarrel might have an end.  His greeting was cheery.

“You have not forgotten, Brewster,” he said, as they shook hands, “that you have a dollar or two with us?”

“No,” said Monty, “not exactly.  And I shall be calling upon you for some of it very soon.  I’m off on Thursday for a cruise in the Mediterranean.”

“I’ve heard something of it.”  They had reached the main floor and Colonel Drew had drawn his companion out of the crowd into the rotunda.  “The money is at your disposal at any moment.  But aren’t you setting a pretty lively pace, my boy?  You know I’ve always liked you, and I knew your grandfather rather well.  He was a good old chap, Monty, and he would hate to see you make ducks and drakes of his fortune.”

There was something in the Colonel’s manner that softened Brewster, much as he hated to take a reproof from Barbara’s father.  Once again he was tempted to tell the truth, but he pulled himself up in time.  “It’s a funny old world, Colonel,” he said; “and sometimes one’s nearest friend is a stranger.  I know I seem a fool; but, after all, why isn’t it good philosophy to make the most of a holiday and then settle back to work?”

“That is all very well, Monty,” and Colonel Drew was entirely serious; “but the work is a hundred times harder after you have played to the limit You’ll find that you are way beyond it.  It’s no joke getting back into the harness.”

“Perhaps you are right, Colonel, but at least I shall have something to look back upon—­even if the worst comes.”  And Monty instinctively straightened his shoulders.

They turned to leave the building, and the Colonel had a moment of weakness.

“Do you know, Monty,” he said, “my daughter is awfully cut up about this business.  She is plucky and tries not to show it, but after all a girl doesn’t get over that sort of thing all in a moment.  I am not saying”—­it seemed necessary to recede a step “that it would be an easy matter to patch up.  But I like you, Monty, and if any man could do it, you can.”